


His Last Stand

by mildlyproductivetrashbag



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyproductivetrashbag/pseuds/mildlyproductivetrashbag
Summary: Castiel never thought it would come to this. Somehow, he expected for everything to right themselves on their own, which was usually what happened. But not this time. This time, Dean's gone too far. And he's the only one who can put a stop to it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters, locations and everything involved with it aren't mine. It belongs to its rightful creators. Only thing that belongs to me is the plot.

The dilapidated building loomed, filling him with a sense of foreboding. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Almost immediately, the scent of sweat and blood and dust hit him. He wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the doorway. He slipped his blade into his hand and gripped it tightly. The weapon felt cool against his skin. It provided a sense of comfort and security, but he knew that in a fight, he only had his own skills to depend on. This didn't mean well, considering who was waiting just beyond the dark.

Castiel stepped through the doorway as his right hand palmed the wall in an attempt to search for a light switch. It was too dark to see anything and his heart pounded in his throat. He swallowed the fear that was slowly building up. His hand finally felt something on the wall. A small, smooth protrusion that he flicked upwards. A light bulb flickered to life, shedding a soft, yellow glow around the place. The bulb hung from a low ceiling. The entire room was in bad shape. It was evident that nobody had lived here for years.

Dust covered the floors, cobwebs hung from the corners and old boxes were scattered everywhere. Some had been destroyed while others were covered with a fine sheet of dust and mildew. It was then that he noticed that the entire floor wasn't covered in dust. There was a clear trail leading to the stairs. Someone was dragged. There were small stains on the trail. Some had seeped into the cement, giving them a rusted and brown look. He knew better of course, than to assume that they were just rust. These stains had been here for some time.

He walked around them, taking care not to step on the stains or disturb the trail. A door at the back had caught his attention, and he would go and investigate before going on to the second floor. He had to be thorough. He didn't want to miss anything, not this time. There wasn't any room for mistakes, not anymore. The door was even worse than the one at the front. It had a broken doorknob, its paint was peeling, and to top it all off, it was jammed. He had to force it open, by bashing it open using his shoulder.

The doorway led to an overgrown garden. Weeds and various shrubbery were left of what might have once been a beautiful garden. Moonlight cast a subtle glow over the place, giving it an ethereal feel. He spends a few more seconds gazing at the garden. A quiet groan echoes throughout the house behind him. It would have gone unnoticed if not for his superior senses. It catches his attention and he freezes. He listens. He can hear the rustle of leaves, the cool wind, and the dripping water. Then, he hears it. Another indistinct groan which seems to be coming from within. Walking back into the room, the door closes behind him. He walks slowly, trying not to disturb the stillness. It comes again, another sound. It seems more like a whimper this time. The sound came from above. Panic fills his being and he begins to run. The haphazardly placed boxes topple over as he pushes past them. He dashes up the stairs, taking two at the time.

He rounds the bannister and the scent of blood becomes more pronounced. A dark hallway greets him. There are two doors on each side. The door at the far right is slightly ajar. He makes a beeline for that entrance. He grasps the cool metal handle, and for one moment, he hesitates. A dozen thoughts pass through his mind. Anything and everything could happen. But he had a duty to fulfill.

The door creaks open. He almost gags as he enters the bedroom. There are two corpses piled on top of each other in the far side of the room. Their skin already held signs of decay, giving explanation for the terrible stench. He was already too late for them. But perhaps there was some hope yet. A woman lay on the bed. Her wrists were bound to the headboard, as well as her feet. A blindfold covered her eyes while some kind of cloth was inside her mouth. She was in terrible shape. Wounds and bruises littered her entire body. Blood seeped into the sheets. Despite all this, she seemed to be alive. Almost. Her chest rose up and down in slow movements, as if it was painful to do even that.

Castiel darted over to her side and removed her blindfold. Her eyes were filled with terror and she began to struggle the moment she set eyes on him. He tried to comfort her.

"It will be alrig-"

A gunshot sliced through the silent night air. The sound reverberated in his ears and rang throughout the house. A bullet wound appeared between her eyes. It was small, precise. Blood oozed and marred the woman's face. Her eyes were still open in one final declaration of fear. He stepped back in surprise, only to feel a warm hand through the back of his coat. His fear returned in full force. Forcing himself to turn around, he met sparkling green eyes. Eyes he had grown to love. Dean's eyes.

"So you found me. Good job Cas." His voice was low and mocking, He carried a pistol in his right hand. Dean smirked at him. It felt _wrong_. He wanted to vomit. This wasn't how it should be. They should be in the bunker. They should be researching, hunting, doing _anything_ but this.

"Dean." Never had he put so much emotion into a single word. Grief and horror, anger and shock, fear and concern, they were all intermingled. "What have you done?" Castiel was shaking. His ears were still ringing from the gunshot. _"What have you done?!"_ He wanted to scream, to yell, to make Dean understand. To make him stop.

Dean cocked his head in reply and raised his eyebrow. That malevolent smirk was still on his face. Completely unaffected by the angel's horror. "I've already told you Cas. You didn't listen. I'm doing this just because I _can._ Simple as that." His voice was calm. Condescending. So unlike Castiel's.

"These people did you no wrong. They were innocent. They all were!"

"And so?" Silence. He left the question hanging in the air. Castiel had no reply. He could only stand and stare at the person- no the _thing_ that had once been his friend. Was this how far Dean had fallen? It didn't matter. No matter how far gone Dean might be, he didn't care. He was still going to save him. Nothing else mattered, now.

"Dean. I know you're still in there. Somewhere deep inside, you're listening to all this. So please, I'm begging you, fight this. It doesn't have to be this way. Sam and I can help you. I can save you. You just have to let me help."

The two stared at each other for what seemed like years. Deep blues stared deep into those enthralling greens. Those eyes, they belonged to the old Dean. _His_ Dean. Unfortunately, as soon as the moment began, it ended, And those green eyes gave way to so bleak, dark ones. They were unsettling. The demon laughed and laughed, and by the time he finished there were actual tears in his eyes.

"Hah! You should hear yourself speak." He wiped away the tears and continued. "You still actually believe you can save _'me'._ Well sorry to burst your bubble Cas, but this," He gestured to his eyes. "Ain't goin' anywhere. That's here to stay."

"No, we can still fix this. You just-"

"You can't fix what isn't broken." His voice was firm, final. It left no room for argument. None of the mocking tones were audible anymore. Castiel's shoulders drooped. He was losing hope. It was ebbing away with each passing second. He tried to muster any hope that he had left, but it was as if he was trying to hold on to sand. Useless.

In one, final, last ditch attempt, he dropped his blade and rushed forward. The weapon clattered to the floor. He sidestepped the punch that Dean threw his way. Instead, he grabbed the lapels of Dean's jacket and pulled him close. He threw all caution to the wind and finally did what had long been overdue. He only wished that he had managed to do this in another time. A better one.

Castiel forced his lips onto Dean's and kissed him roughly. He put everything into he'd ever felt for this broken shell of a man into the action. His fear, his despair, his affection, his _love_. Dean was so startled that his eyes flickered back into their original color. He struggled to get out of the angel's grip but soon realized that it was futile. He melted into the kiss and responded with as much passion as he received.

Soon, they had to part. Both were out of breath. Dean had an undecipherable expression. For a short, brief, moment, Castiel was hopeful. He could still save him. Everything would be okay. He could solve-

An excruciating pain shot through his entire being. Everything began to fade. He looked down and saw the First Blade embedded in his stomach. Dean pulls it out and there is just _so much blood._ He fell to his knees, gasping and choking, as Dean laughs. His eyes were that abysmal shade of black. He'd never forget that image. He collapsed, and everything went dark.


End file.
